


N00Bz

by CathrineMcCord (furiosophie)



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternative universe - Esports, Angst, F/F, Humor, I rly tried to make this all humor but apparently I'm incapable of that lmao, M/M, You've been warned, also rly dumb jokes like so dumb, but it has a cat in a dinosaur costume and dance dance revolution to make up for it, fortnite, yes you read that correctly
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-28
Updated: 2020-06-28
Packaged: 2021-03-04 09:54:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24967777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/furiosophie/pseuds/CathrineMcCord
Summary: There is little that escapes Bond, but for the life of him, he cannot fathom how he ended up going from what felt like a life or death situation to sitting on a hotel room bed, eating pizza with a man wearing a Grumpy Cat shirt and not much else. For a brief moment he wonders what Alec would do now, in a situation like this - in bed with an asset and nothing but a cat seperating them. Fuck. He knows exactly what Alec would do.-Or the one where Bond has to go undercover at a Fortnite World Championship and his best chance of tracking down the bad guys is to work with the cocky, obnoxious, and incredibly cute star player Q-TEA and his cat.Written for the MI6 Café Mini Bang
Relationships: James Bond/Q
Comments: 5
Kudos: 26
Collections: MI6 Cafe MiniBang





	1. Tutorial

**Author's Note:**

> My prompt fill for the MI6 Café Mini Bang. It was supposed to be 3k words but my brain has no chill so here we are.
> 
> Also, look, I know jack shit about esports but I rly rly like video games and I just wanted to write sth with video games in it, ok? Did I make it much harder on myself by choosing the one game I’ve never played? Yes, possibly. Was I too stubborn to change it once I realised that? Definitely. I also haven’t written in 5 years, so good luck?
> 
> Thank you to [christinefromsherwood](https://christinefromsherwood.tumblr.com/) who is my amazing artist for this Mini Bang and the best hype woman and beta anyone could ever wish for ❤

_"So, dear, how are you feeling?”_

The crackling static of Bond’s earpiece cuts sharply through the chatter and upbeat pop music bouncing around the tournament hall. He shifts his weight, ducking further into one of the only corners of the building that isn’t illuminated with bright, flashing neon lights.

“Out of place,” he answers, barely suppressing an eye-roll. “What are you doing on coms, Alec? I’ve got enough bloody children around me right now.”

In front of him, two teenagers in brightly colored jerseys are trying to make their way back to their seats balancing a mountain of popcorn, chips, and monster energy drinks. He watches in what feels like slow motion as one of them trips over his untied shoelaces and goes sprawling on the floor, face-first into a bucket of popcorn. 

_“Ahh, I’m hurt,”_ Alec’s chimes in his ear. Bond can hear the smile in his voice. They both know damn well that Alec has absolutely no business listening in on what is supposed to be a secure line directly to mission control. _“They put me under house arrest after Shanghai, something about my broken ribs needing to heal. I’m bored.”_

Bond sidesteps the trail of previously spilled energy drink that’s making its way to his corner and moves further into the hall. From his position at the back of the rows, the stage looks huge. Once again he wonders how on earth there is such a hype for--

_“I’ll take listening in on you being miserable at a Fortnite World Championship over Medical any day, dear.”_

Alec laughs, then immediately groans in discomfort as someone blows an air horn next to Bond’s ear.

“Always so comforting to hear you relish in my misery.”

There is a click on the line, indicating that someone from Q branch has caught on to Alec’s shenanigans. Bond reaches the front of the stage just as M himself announces his presence.

 _“007. I trust 006 has kept you ample company, but it’s time to get to work now.”_ M’s voice indicates neither annoyance nor humor. _“Status?”_

No answering statement from Alec. Q branch kicked him out, then. Serves him right. Bond dodges what he thinks might be a woman dressed as a Power Ranger with a pickaxe.

“Sir. I’m in the main tournament hall, left of the stage. The quarter-finals won’t start for another half hour, but the room is already packed. From what I can tell it’s a mix of teens and twenty-somethings, the odd parent here and there. There are a lot of people--” Bond halts, looking around. The word ‘dressed up’ is at the tip of his tongue, but really even he can appreciate how much work must have gone into some of the incredibly elaborate costumes. He is pretty sure he saw one light up and blow out puffs of smoke. He decides to settle on “--in costume.”

_“Any sign of potential activity?”_

“Hard to tell,” he answers honestly. 

He knows M is specifically asking for anything that would fall into the category of terrorism or catastrophe. But he’s seen a dozen foam guns waved around openly so far and he might be able to tell them apart from the real thing with relative ease if he is given a couple of seconds, but with the chaotic movements of the people around him, he’s not comfortable making that gamble. Especially considering his own Walther had not exactly been hard to smuggle in. 

“Is there any more intel you can give me?”

_“I’m afraid not. Our analysts have determined this championship to be the most likely point of contact.”_

MI6 has been on the tail of this black market syndicate for years. Millions of dollars in damages, all by exploiting a freaking video game. Not to mention the chatter about ties to known cyberterrorists. Even after multiple attempts by Interpol to take them down, they seem untouchable. No one even knew who they were looking for exactly. 

_“This is the first time their MO changed enough for us to catch up to them. We need to be ready for the worst.”_

“Understood.”

Bond hears M take another breath to say something else, but the rest of his words are lost on him. 

There is movement in the corner of his eye, too far on his periphery to really make out details, but characteristic enough for the hair on his neck to stand up. He’s seen it before. Hundreds of times. Someone pulling a gun from below their jacket.

It’s familiar then, the feeling of adrenaline rushing into his veins, the way he shifts his breathing to keep the hormone from taking over and making him jittery.

_Breathe in._

One step to the side, a twist of his torso towards the target. 

_Breathe out._

Use the momentum to deliver an uppercut to the target’s chin with his elbow.

 _In. Out. In._

He instinctively reads the man’s name on his jersey as he tackles him to the ground - “D3NBIGh”. Strange, he could have sworn the color of this particular jersey was only worn by contestants.

Bond fishes for the gun under the unconscious man below him.

Fuck.

Foam.

A taser crackles at the back of his neck and the neon lights go black.

* * *

Bond knows that waking up is the easy part. Not alerting anyone to the fact that you are awake on the other hand requires years of training. Keep your breathing level, suppress the instinct of fight or flight, catalog the situation. You’ve got the advantage as long as they underestimate you.

The surface below him is soft, cushioned. His right arm is dangling free, knuckles scraping against the rough fabric of a carpeted floor. There is a clean but indistinct smell in the air, the type of impersonal fragrance you would only find in a hotel room. 

Except for the buzzing in his head and the taser burn he can feel prickling at the back of his neck he seems to be uninjured. The most concerning thing at the moment is the fact that both his earpiece and Walther seem to be missing. Oh and ...

Something is sitting on his left thigh.

Roughly the weight of a sack of potatoes. 

Football shaped. 

Warm.

_Why is it warm?_

The football bites his leg, tiny needles digging through his pants.

He shoots up in one swift motion. Fuck the element of surprise.

“What is this and why is it _stabbing me with tiny needles_?”

He looks at his leg, staring down a furry noodle, wrapped in what looks like a dinosaur costume. He is pretty sure that what is underneath the green spiky fabric is a cat. Mostly sure. Well...

“That’s my cat, Agent Bond. And you’re currently in her place on my sofa.” 

Bond’s head whips around, adrenalin pumping, fingers twitching with the urge to reach for his empty holster.

There is a man perched cross-legged right at the edge of a comically large hotel bed. He is being nearly swallowed by a pastel pink hoodie, curly brown hair falling over the rim of his glasses. He somehow looks both as fluffy and unkempt as his cat. 

The mystery man furrows his brows, tilting his head to the side slowly. Bond is eerily reminded of the way M looks at him every time he fails the psych exam. They stare at each other for barely a fraction of a second but it feels like he’s just gone through a full field assessment. 

The cat, Bond duly notes, seems unbothered.

“You’re lucky she likes you,” the man continues and Bond snaps back to reality. “Kneading is a way cats establish bonds. They associate the feeling with-”

"Why is it dressed like a dinosaur?" is the first thing that shoots into Bond’s head and apparently out of his mouth too. Right, ok.

The stranger looks truly offended for a second. He unfurls himself and comes over to pluck the cat from Bond’s lap. Bond would be irritated if it didn’t feel so damn nice to plant his legs firmly on the ground again.

"Snes, I will have you know,” the guy tuts at Bond, cradling the cat in his arms like a baby, “is not dressed like a dinosaur, but like a beloved Super Mario character, Yoshi."

There is a moment of silence. Bond just stares at the man blankly, then decides to simply not process the knowledge he’s just been given and move on instead.

“And who the fuck are you?”

“Oh me? I’m just Q,” the guy introduces himself with a soft shrug and a smile that says he is amused by something that clearly went over Bond’s head. “But more importantly I’m the only person in Britain who doesn’t want you dead right now, so I’d be nicer to me if I were you.”

"Elaborate."

The command is met with unimpressed stares from both cat and owner.

“Please.”

Q smiles and plops himself down on the coffee table.

"Well, remember the guy you took out? He sprained his wrist. Badly. So no games for him, not for a while,” the young man looks entirely too pleased. It reminds Bond of Alec’s apology the one time he accidentally shot Bond on a mission. 

“He was also,” Q continues, “Britain’s top favorite for this championship. You know, the one where you take home 300 Million Pounds if you win."

"So they hate me because he won't win?"

"No. They hate you because they won't cash any of the bets they placed on him winning."

Bond allows himself a deep sigh. He didn't think it was possible to hate this mission even more. He was wrong. 

“So why am I here and not being hunted by an angry mob?”

"I told Security you were with me, my new handler. Didn't know the ropes yet, a bit jumpy, what a terrible shame. Top-ranked players like myself often have issues with particularly _enthusiastic_ fans. It wasn’t that far of a stretch. They were so kind as to bring you up to my hotel room after some... persuasion."

Bong groans. Of bloody fucking course. Q is one of the competitors.

Alright, he might be able to use this. 

“What even is a ‘handler’?”

Q grins, another one of those kind of grins that says that he is in on a joke that Bond isn’t. 

“Well ‘handler’ can mean anything really.” he laughs, “Most of us have _someone_ around them, a bodyguard, a manager, some PR person, maybe even their mom. There is a lot of turnover here so it becomes tiring to keep track of it all and everyone just calls them ‘handlers’”

Bond takes a deep breath. There is no way in hell he’s going to babysit a grown-ass man. No matter how much that grown-ass man looks like he could need a good meal or twenty. 

But he can use this, gain access. The mission comes first. He’ll carry a candy bar next to his Walther, how hard can it be? 

Finally Bond asks the question he really should have led with: “You called me an agent, why?” 

It’s subtle, and maybe it’s just Snes climbing down from Q’s shoulders to curl up in his lap, but something in the younger man’s posture shifts. He answers just a second too quickly.

“Really, it was not that hard to tell. You stick out like a sore thumb. And besides, Interpol has been swarming these tournaments for months, without result. Based on your accent and…” Q leans back giving Bond a once over. “... posture, I'd say you’re MI6?"

Bond stays silent, hands resting in his lap in feigned relaxation. There it is again. The prickling of imminent danger at the back of this neck. For a split second he is back on a train to Montenegro.

When Q finally breaks the silence, Bond has the foul aftertaste of Château Angelus on his tongue. 

"The man you are looking for is called Raul Silva. He's been running the black market for the past two years, same as the championship matches. Most of the money goes into his pocket one way or the other."

"And how the _hell_ do you know that?" Bond asks, voice low, calm.

There is a long pause and Bond itches for his Walther. He wonders if Q is carrying a gun or if he somehow trained Snes to claw his eyes out on command. 

"Because,” Q finally says with a smile that’s both genuine and on the verge of sinister, “I like to know who my opponents are.”

Bond can tell he is not lying. But he is damn sure that that’s not all there is to it either. 

Still, he knows that Q currently presents his best chance at completing the mission.

It's just - and this is where Bond finds himself at a loss of both training and instinct - so damn bloody strange to assess someone who is currently cradling a cat in a dinosaur costume like she is his firstborn child.

Fuck.

“Elaborate," Bond says finally," please.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Absolutely amazing header and incredibly cute sketch of Snes by [christinefromsherwood](https://christinefromsherwood.tumblr.com/)!
> 
> If anyone interested in the prompt that I'm aware has nothing to do with the actual story that came out of it:  
> “What is this and why is it stabbing me with tiny needles?”  
> “That’s my cat, agent Bond, and you’re currently in her place on my sofa. You’re lucky she likes you. Kneading is a way cats establish bonds. They associate the feeling with-”  
> “And who the fuck are you?”  
> “I’m the only person in Britain who doesn’t want you dead at the moment, so I’d be nicer to me if I were you.”


	2. First Wave

They go from intense stalemate to eating pizza on Q’s hotel bed. 

There is little that escapes Bond, but for the life of him, he cannot fathom how he ended up going from what felt like a life or death situation to sitting on a bed, surrounded by pizza, a cat in a dinosaur costume and a man wearing a Grumpy Cat shirt and not much else.

It’s not that Bond can’t remember exactly what happened. It’s just that it doesn’t make sense. He went from trying to figure out what potential weapon his opponent is carrying, to learning that that same man despises pinnable pizza. The familiar adrenalin is switched with alarming coziness and Bond feels like the residual buzzing in his head might be from emotional whiplash rather than a taser.

As soon as he decided on utilizing Q as an asset, the younger man handed him first the cat, then his missing gun, and proceeded to tell him that they were late for the quarter-finals. He can’t shake the feeling that Q must have been assessing him too.

Bond ended up standing at the back of the stage watching Q decimate his opponents with nothing but a pickaxe and a purple shotgun. 

None of what he could see of the game projected onto the big screens all over the arena made any lick of sense or was even remotely grounded in reality. And yet Bond found himself oddly fascinated, sucked in by the chaos of it. There was a wicked smile on Q’s lips every time the camera came to stop on his face, his features blown out of proportion, otherworldly in how they hovered above the masses.

There was something about how his fingers danced over the keyboard, about that smile, and the eerie calm that surrounded him. It made something in Bond shift, ready to fight. He knows that the man in front of him could do more damage on a laptop in his pajamas than any of their agents could do in a year in the field. 

It was over in a flash, Q advancing to the semi-finals, unbothered and uninterested in the crowd that started gathering around him as soon as he put his headphones down. It was easy then, somehow, for Bond to slip into the role of Q’s handler, pushing grabby hands and glossy headshots out of Q’s face. 

They didn’t talk all the way up to the hotel room: Q was distracted typing out messages on his phone, undoubtedly to people congratulating him on his win. Bond didn’t join them in their praise, and Q didn’t demand it. He seemed remarkably relaxed for the fact that he just advanced closer to the final and was sharing an elevator with a lethal 00 Agent.

It was unnerving to the point that Bond felt ready to tackle someone all over again. 

When they were finally up in the relative privacy of the hotel room and Q excused himself for the shower, Bond checked his phone for the first time since he’d blacked out. He had two missed calls from MI6 and three deceptively cheery texts from Alec. Q had told him that his earpiece had been fried by the taser and he doesn't mourn its loss. He texted MI6 Silva’s name and then fired a quick _‘still alive’_ back to Alec, knowing that the other 00 is the most likely to come kicking down doors if Bond goes MIA.

For a brief moment Bond wonders what Alec would do now, in a situation like this - sitting on the bed of an asset, eating pizza, a cat snuggled up between them. Q’s hair is still damp from his shower, lazy droplets dripping onto his collarbone. 

_Fuck._ He knows exactly what Alec would do.

Bond drags his eyes back to the laptop screen Q is wildly gesturing at, to actually catch what he is saying.

“--so the way Silva makes his money is by recruiting a bunch of teenage kids to play for him,” Q explains around a slice of pizza, greasy fingers leaving smudges on the laptop screen as he points at pictures of players on the tournament roster. “Most of the players entering the tournament work for him, whoever wins delivers the prize money straight into his pockets.” 

“So I got to get closer to one of those players.” 

Q scoffs at him, clearly already ten steps ahead. Bond is annoyed and charmed in equal measures. “No, as soon as we approach any of them he’ll drop them. Or worse.”

“So?” 

“I win the tournament.”

“You win and what?” Bond asks with more patience than he thought he had left on this mission.

“And I get the money, which will deal a devastating financial blow to _his_ organization and in turn give _your_ little organization time to actually catch up to him.”

Bond fights the urge to grab Q by the shoulders and _shake_. “Need I remind you that you just said he’ll do ‘worse’ to any player we so much as approach? What do you think he’ll do to you if you take 300 Million dollars from him?”

Q looks at him for a second, considering. There is a grease stain on the collar of his t-shirt, bare legs crossed beneath him, his hair drying into a messy nest of curls. Bond is suddenly reminded that the man in front of him, for all the calm and genius he radiates, is still _a civilian_. 

“Well, that's even better,” Q says finally, “because you are here to protect me. So if he comes after me you’ll catch him even faster.”

There it is _again_ that feeling from before, pulse-quickening, the movement of a train vibrating in his bones. Bond unclenches his jaw.

“I don’t like that plan,” he says when Q raises an impatient eyebrow at him. His voice sounds off, even to his own ears.

“How boring,” Q drawls and lets himself fall back against the copious amount of cushions. His legs stretch out, shins brushing against Bond’s knees.

“What’s option B,” Bond asks, not willing to argue.

“You can join me at this little industry party in like--” Q checks his phone,”--twenty minutes. I’ll point him out if he shows up.”

“That seems very vague.”

Q grins and looks up from his phone.

“Let’s do both then.”

* * *

They take Bond’s car. On the fifteen-minute drive, he learns that Q knows a lot about cars. To the point where he has apparently thought in great detail about how to best build a flamethrower into an Aston Martin DBS. Bond also learns that he is not dressed appropriately to hang out with a bunch of nerds.

Q makes him lose his suit jacket in the parking lot and Bond reluctantly moves his gun to his ankle holster. There is a long awkward silence where Q regards him from the passenger’s seat, hands steepled under his chin as if he were a puzzle to be solved. 

Bond is about to just step out of the car and leave Q behind when Q leans over to grab Bond’s wrist with a swiftness that leaves him blinking for a second. 

He starts unbuttoning Bonds shirt cuffs before the agent has time to pull his arm away, working with quick deft movements to roll up Bond’s sleeves. Q’s fingers are warm against his skin, knuckles brushing over faded scars.

“That’s better,” he announces when he’s done. There is a lilt to his voice that Bond nearly doesn’t catch, too focused on the way Q’s hair refuses to stay out of his face. 

For a second neither of them moves an inch, Q’s hand still resting on his biceps. 

Bond grabs the door handle to get the fuck out of the car. 

“Wait just--” Q squeezes his arm before he can open the door and he freezes, heartbeat ricocheting off the Aston Martin’s walls.

Q leans impossibly closer as his hands move up to unbutton Bond’s collar. He threatens to fall over from the movement and Bond reaches out instinctively, grabbing his hips to steady him. He is wearing that damned pink hoodie again, soft fabric gliding against Bonds calloused hands.

Q’s face is hovering so close to his neck, for a split second Bond thinks he might bridge those last centimeters to rip out his throat. He is not sure if he’d stop him.

And then it’s over. 

Q leans back, spell broken. He gives him one last once-over and, apparently pleased with his work, exits the car. Bond takes a steadying breath and considers just driving off before he remembers the mission. Fuck.

He catches up to Q just before he reaches the entrance of the building. It looks like it used to be part of the old shipyard that stretches out in front of them, a massive hangar now filled with light-up floors and endless rows of arcade machines. 

As soon as they enter Bond knows exactly why Q was so adamant about changing up his look. He had thought Q’s getup of oversized sweater, fitted black sweatpants, and light-up sneakers to be absolutely ridiculous but now that he sees the sea of colorful people in front of him he feels uncomfortably monochrome. As far as he can tell at least two-thirds of the crowd is dressed in full-on costume. 

When Bond turns back with a resigned sigh he is just in time to catch Q downing his third tequila shot. What the--

“What the bloody hell do you think you are doing?” Bond growls, grabbing Q by the arm to pull him away from the tray before he can take another one.

Q honest-to-god sticks his tongue out at him. 

“Oh, come on! It’s a party! Loosen up a little!” 

Bond drags Q to the side and pushes him against the back of an unoccupied arcade machine. It’s one swift motion but Q still nearly misses a step and Bond makes sure to keep his hand firmly wrapped around his arm. From where he is leaning over him, he can clearly see that Q’s eyes have gone glassy, a faint blush creeping up his cheeks. Of fucking course, that idiot has a non-existent alcohol tolerance. 

“Who do you think you are, pushing me around like that? My _handler_?” Q says with a grin, then bursts out laughing at his own joke. 

Even in the crowded hall, Bond can hear that laugh bright as day. He realizes with unwanted clarity that he would probably find this situation genuinely charming, were it not for Queen and country. That laugh, the blush, the way their chests are inches from brushing together. If not for queen and country he might--

But this is a mission. He has an objective. And a drunk asset is bad for completing that objective. A drunk asset is harder to protect.

Bond is about to just call it quits and fireman-carry Q back to the hotel room when someone touches his shoulder. He turns his head to find a pink-haired woman standing behind him. She is about Q’s age and he hates the fact that he can identify her getup as Chibiusa’s Black Lady dress, thanks to Alec’s brief weeb phase. Her smile doesn’t reach her eyes. It’s oddly fitting. 

“Is that man bothering you, love?” she addresses Q but her hand remains firmly on Bond’s shoulder. He is reasonably sure that he could take her, but he doesn’t want to find out.

“Camy!” Q exclaims winding out from under Bond with surprising strength. With her heels on, she is taller than him, but Q still lifts her up to twirl her around before planting her firmly back in front of Bond. He doesn’t miss the way she steadies him and part of him is grateful that she doesn’t seem to pose a threat. The other part is--

“This is Camille Montes! One of the world’s most formidable Overwatch players I’ve ever met!” Q introduces her, arm wrapped around her waist. “Camy, this grumpy chap is my new handler.”

Camille switches from hostility to genuine smile in the fraction of a second and Bond wishes some of their rookies were this in control of their facial expressions. She extends her hand and they exchange a firm handshake. 

“Bond, James Bond. Pleasure to meet you.”

“Pleasure is all mine, Mr. Bond.” She ruffles Q’s hair before adding, “especially because until now this one has sent every single one of his handlers running for the hills in twenty minutes or less. How long have you been holding up so far?”

“About six hours now.”

“A new record!” she exclaims in mock glee and Q rolls his eyes at her. Camy leans over to lightly pat Bond’s chest, her smile all teeth. “Undoubtedly thanks to your _hands-on_ approach.”

“Undoubtedly,” Bond smiles and suppresses the urge to wrap his hand back around Q’s arm.

“Oh wait, fuck, Camille!” Q steps between them suddenly to grab Camy by the shoulders, knocking her hand away in the process. “You still owe me a freaking DDR rematch!”

“Oh sweety,” Camy laughs, “this dress is not meant to play Dance Dance Revolution. If I take you on, I need my full range of movement.”

Bond might not fully understand what’s going on, but he can practically feel the disappointment radiating off Q. He wonders briefly if Q is the type of drunk that could be cheered up with ice cream. He doesn’t get to finish that thought.

His attention is drawn away by both Camy and Q wrapping an arm around each of his. Whatever silent agreement they’ve reached in the split-second he was distracted, it’s going to cost him.

“Remember that hands-on approach Camy praised you for?” Q asks, saccharine sweet. “She was wondering how far your dedication to this new position goes.”

“What did you have in mind?” Bond hears himself ask against his better judgment and instantly knows he’s going to regret it. 

* * *

In the end, Bond opts for a bridal-carry, rather than the fireman variant he’d considered earlier. It’s less practical should they encounter any form of resistance that would require him to draw his gun, but quite frankly a bridal-carry is just more efficient when having to remove a sleeping body from a vehicle as near to the ground as an Aston Martin DBS.

He half regrets his decision when Snes decides to greet them by weaving in and out of his legs, but he manages to deposit Q on the hotel bed without any major disasters. After brief consideration and a judgmental meow from Snes he takes off Q’s shoes and wrangles him out of the ridiculous hoodie.

Q stirs for a second, swiping at his arm as if to grab him. Bond pulls the blanket over him to swaddle him into submission and Q quiets with a huff. Snes hops up to snuggle herself up next to his head.

When he looks at Q now, wrapped in blankets, chest rising and falling softly in a peaceful drunken sleep, he thinks about the fact that he usually has no problem sleeping with an asset, Queen and country be damned. In fact, he often does it just out of convenience. It’s the quickest way to establish a bond. To complete the mission. And he thinks that Q might even be game, confident in his ability to charm the pants off almost anyone. But this-- 

In the past 9 hours, somewhere, somehow, Q went from asset to-- 

Whatever the fuck _this_ is.

Someone worth protecting. Someone he wants to protect just like he wanted to protect--

No. Enough. 

At a loss, Bond opts to step out on the hotel room balcony and check-in with MI6. 

Alec’s text is the first thing that pops up as he looks at his phone.

[01:02] _why is there a video of you losing in DDR trending on Twitter_   
[01:10] _no no wait don't tell me_   
[01:10] _i'm gonna start my own rumors_

There is another one from Eve saying: " _That Q-TEA looks like a CU-TIE_ ” followed by a wink and heart eyes emoji. He ignores both of them and goes directly to calling mission control instead.

“I initiated contact with the player Q-TEA,” he reports as soon as the line connects. “I believe he presents a good chance get closer to Silva--”

It’s then that he realizes that he has no idea if Silva was even in the general vicinity of the party, too focused on making sure his _asset_ wasn’t about to break his neck shaking his butt. He suppresses a sigh as he catches a glimpse of Q’s sleeping reflection in the balcony doors.

It’s back to plan A then, he supposes. 

Keep Q alive long enough to make Silva want to kill him. 

Great.

Fucking fantastic.

“Moving forward at my own discretion.”

“ _Damn, I bet you are!_ ” Alec’s laugh rings over the line, followed by an audible shuffle. The next voice that comes over the line is Tanner’s. He sounds exhausted.

“ _Please excuse the interruption, 007, but 006 is_ **_in_ ** _Q branch with us now. Permission to proceed._ ” 

“Don't feed him, he'll grow attached,” Bond advises over Alec’s laughter bellowing in the background and hangs up.

When he gets back to the hotel room Q has somehow managed to strip himself butt naked in his sleep, skin barely covered by the blanket. Snes yawns at him, unbothered.

Bond sinks down on the couch and settles in for a long night. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The absolutely amazing myo.mikan drew the scene of Bond and Q waltzing into the club and it's the most beautiful thing! You can look at it [here](https://www.instagram.com/p/B_INdkBga1Q/?utm_source=ig_web_copy_link).


	3. Second Wave

The next day Bond is woken by a knock on the door. 

He shoots awake, hand reaching for his gun, just to have Snes’s claws dig into his thighs. He suppresses a curse as he looks down to find the fluffy cat curled up in his lap. She must have switched over from Q’s pillow during the night. 

The knocking continues.

A quick glance at his phone reveals that it’s 10 am. 5 hours of sleep, could be worse. He has a 3 am text from Tanner that just reads “pick him up” in all caps. Bond sighs quietly and gently pries Snes from his pants. He spares a quick glance at Q, who is still asleep naked and tangled in his sheets. His throat suddenly feels dry.

Maybe 5 hours is not enough sleep after all. Maybe, for just a couple minutes, he could lie down besides--

Another knock.

Snes meows impatiently. 

Bond turns away and makes his way to the door, gun drawn. He listens to the movements on the other side of the door for a second, pressing himself against the wall, gun angled at the ready but out of sight. Then he cracks the door open with sudden precision and no prior warning. A concierge blinks at him through the narrow gap, mid knock.

“Delivery for you, Sir?” he stammers, a statement put as a question.

“I can’t recall ordering anything.” Bond smiles. He gives the concierge a once over before lowering his gun out of sight. His grip stays relaxed but ready. 

“It’s addressed to, uhm, James Bond?” the concierge reads of the package in his arms. He looks a bit lost. “It came sorted to this room number, but if there is a problem I can--”

“No, it’s all fine,” Bond says, taking the box out of his hands. “Must have forgotten about some late night shopping.”

He laughs pleasantly, calculated, and the concierge just seems to be all too happy to get back to his desk. He mumbles a goodbye and Bond watches him scurry down the hallway until he is out of sight. 

Back in the quiet of the hotel room, gun safely tucked into its holster so Snes can’t accidentally knock it off the table, Bond takes a closer look at the package. It’s really just a plain white box with the hotel's emblem on it, most likely containing something that the concierge was sent out to procure on short notice. He definitely did not order anything and as far as he knows no one at MI6 has this room number. 

“It’s not a bomb.”

He looks up to find an unruly mop of curls sticking out from a nest of pillows and blankets. Snes bolts to jump back up on the bed.

“And here I was hoping I could finally put that bomb disposal training to good use.”

Q snorts into his pillow. “As if you never needed that before.”

Bond smiles, then clears his throat against the warmth rising in his chest. He busies himself with opening the box. As soon as he lifts the top off, he halts. 

“This is a suit,” Bond states matter of factly as he pulls the jacket out. And really that is a generous description. It’s an incredibly drab grey that screams windowless cubicle, the fabric itching below his fingertips just from holding it up. He doesn’t even want to get started on the pink pinstripe shirt he can see peeking out from the bottom of the box. 

Q can’t seriously expect him to wear this.

“How the-- Is this H&M?!”

“Jup, had the concierge pick it out yesterday.” Q has managed to prop himself up on the pillows. His blanket is wrapped around his shoulders, face barely visible but long legs sticking out. It’s not exactly graceful. He’s ignoring Bond in favor of scrolling on his phone, but there is a small smile on his lips. 

“I sized you up the moment we met.”

“It’s a terrible fit.”

“Exactly. I need you looking like a man that belongs at an e-sports meet and greet.”

“What the--”

“Besides,’’ Q cuts him off with the wave of his hand and Bond’s attention is drawn to the way the blanket slips down his shoulders. “It’s not like your previous suit was that remarkable, it just looked more uncomfortable, really. Like don’t you need, I don’t know, a range of movement to fire a gun or something like that?”

Bond is about to protest when it finally clicks. “Wait, did you say meet and greet?”

“Ah yes, that.” Q looks a tad sheepish at that. “In half an hour at the mall below the hotel. Better get dressed.” 

He just sinks down onto the bed again, pulling up his legs so Snes will stop trying to catch his wiggling toes. There is no more movement or comment after that, so Bond figures the ‘better get dressed’ was aimed at him. He allows himself an eye-roll and a sigh before he grabs the box and moves to the bathroom to change. 

The only light at the end of the tunnel is the fact that he doesn’t have to roll up the seam of the suit pants. The rest fits as atrociously as imagined. The shirt is bulging unflatteringly at his waist, while the shoulder panels hang at least three centimeters below their designated spot. At least he won’t have any issues concealing his gun.

He does his best to adjust the cuffs when he hears a soft chuckle to his left. He turns to find Q leaning in the doorway. He has managed to put on a short-sleeved white button-down and lilac socks, but Bond barely registers it over the amusement in his eyes.

Amusement and fondness, a genuine smile.

Bond blinks and for a second the modern black furnishings of the bathroom turn into gold marbled walls. There is a chuckle echoing off of them, just as bright as Q’s, light and soft until it turns into blood and fear running down a shower drain.

He breathes out and the world shifts back from tailored dinner jackets to ill-fitting suits.

“I’ve truly outdone myself.” Q laughs, but there is a strain to it now. Bond ignores it, eager to get away from the pit in his stomach and rattling in his bones.

“Put some pants on,” he says with a practiced smirk and nod at Q’s rainbow-colored briefs.

* * *

The mall is loud and bright and the suit is just as ill-fitting in movement as it was in the bathroom fifteen minutes ago. Bond scratches at the collar as he watches a bright-eyed, young intern fumble with Q’s jacket trying to attach some partners' logo. There is an unfamiliar sort of unease rising in his chest as the intern’s hands linger a little bit too long on Q’s shoulders. 

Bond turns away to stick his head out from behind the pop-up promotion wall that’s prominently displaying logos of companies he’s never heard of. There are two minutes on the clock until Q’s great entrance, as good a time as any to do a last assessment of the situation. 

They are stationed in the main entrance hall, sectioned off just beside the big electronic store. Not a coincidence he assumes. The event team diligently put up dividers made of purple rope for crowd control but the nervous excitement of the fans that gathered makes it seem like a bit of a pointless effort. The ridiculously large promotion wall is the only thing really separating them from the crowd and Bond hopes that they’ll behave once Q steps out from behind it. He really doesn’t feel like tackling another guy with a foam gun.

“Ready?” Bond hears the intern chirp behind him and turns back around to Q’s face barely inches from his. 

The space behind the wall is already cramped but in the seconds Bond wasn’t paying attention Q seems to have stepped impossibly closer. 

“Better plug your ears for a bit.” Q grins at him apologetically and the tips of their noses nearly brush. Bond is about to ask why when Q wiggles past him to step in front of the crowd. 

The screams are deafening. 

Bond quickly steps out after him, fully prepared to fight whatever is causing these screams, but the only thing he is met with is Q giving the crowd finger guns.

_ What the fuck _ , is all he has time to think before they start shooing the first fans up on the stage to take pictures with Q. He spares a glance at the rest of the staff who seem woefully unimpressed, clearly used to this madness. He thinks he spots earplugs on at least two of them.

His attention is drawn back to Q as he gracefully accepts the overeager hug of his first fan. There is a soft smile on his lips like he’s some benevolent god. He signs the fans jacket and they snap a quick photo that will undoubtedly cost the guy a fortune to purchase later. Then the next doe-eyed teenager is shoved up on stage. 

During the next hour of neverending fans, Bond learns the following three things:

First, Q’s fans are a colorful mix of both teenagers and twentysomethings. He hears one of them mention that she’s been following Q’s rise to fame for nearly ten years and a quick google search reveals that Q has been at this since he was fifteen, which Bond has to admit is impressive. 

Second, Q has his own line of merchandise, including gems like mugs, hats, and a shirt with a huge anime version of Q’s head. In a split second of weakness Bond considers buying the very very soft looking plush version of Snes.

And third, Q is actually really good with people when he wants to be. The snarky remarks are replaced with genuine thank you’s and heartfelt encouragement. The mischievous glint in his eyes seems softer, kinder. Bond is not sure he likes it.

Most of the whole ordeal goes over peacefully, save for one or two times he has to encourage a fan to actually detach themselves from Q and leave the stage. He spends most of his time idly surveying the crowd from the back corner of the platform and periodically handing Q a water bottle. At the 70-minute mark, he can see the event staff slowly motioning to wrap it up and he stands at attention again, preparing to swiftly get Q out of there should any fans disrespect the flimsy barriers in their disappointment. The staffer closest to the crowd motions for one last fan to go up on the platform.

Later that night Bond will wonder how he didn’t spot her in the crowd, how he didn’t see her coming from a mile away. He can feel her presence before he even sees her step on the platform. There is a shift in the air, Q’s posture going rigid, losing all its charm. Bond takes a step forward, hairs rising at the back of his neck.

She’s unarmed, her dress is too tightly wound to conceal anything beyond her curves. But there is something about her that screams danger. She’s as out of place as Bond would have been had he worn his tailored suit. There is a tremor in her smile and for a second he wonders if the danger she radiates is actually concealed fear.

“Severine.” Q pulls her closer before Bond can even think of stepping between them. “What a  _ wonderful  _ surprise.”

“Oh darling, how could I pass up a chance like this.” She laughs and wraps an arm around his waist, sharp nails resting on Q’s hip. “I barely get to see you anymore.”

“Well I’m being kept busy here I’m afraid.” Q smiles, leaning into her and gesturing at the crowd which erupts into cheers. His voice is audibly strained, any trace of benevolent kindness wiped away. His back is so straight Bond thinks he’s about to snap.

Bond takes another step forward ready to pull Q away when the handsy intern pulls at his arm, gesturing towards the cameraman who’s glaring daggers at him for walking into his shot. 

It takes barely 30 seconds for Bond to shake the intern’s hands-off and level some glares of his own, but when he turns back around to grab Q, Severine is already turning to take her leave. She passes Bond with a smile and for a split second, he thinks he sees a tiny red dot dancing across her neck. It’s gone the moment she steps off the platform. 

Bond ignores it in favor of stepping up to Q who seems frozen in place. His face is white as a sheet, all color drained out to leave his brown glasses in stark contrast on cold skin. For a moment Bond debates asking him what’s wrong, but then opts for prioritizing getting Q the fuck out of here. 

He falls into his training easily enough, maneuvering Q behind the promotion wall with one hand on his arm and the other gently pushing at his back. The intern hurries after them and opens his mouth to protest, but falls silent as Bond shoves a finger in his face followed by a firm ‘no’.

Bond leads Q along the pre-planned route to the elevators that will lead them directly back to the hotel. He keeps his body curled around Q’s like a shield, one hand in a firm grip around his right arm, the other resting across his back to keep him going. Their cheeks brush as he leans forward to call the elevator and Bond shudders at the icy coldness of Q’s skin.

They are lucky enough to catch an empty one and Bond lets out a sigh of relief as he notices Q relax marginally once the doors close. 

“Alright,” Bond gently lets go of Q’s arm in favor of facing him. “What the actual fuck was that?”

Q blinks at him for a long second, as if he’s only now realizing where he is and with whom. 

Then he laughs. It sounds manic.

“I’m sorry,” he forces out between giggles, “I think I’m still feeling the hangover. Gosh, you looked so serious.”

For a brief second Bond has to resist the urge to shove that grin off Q’s face, but there is something mixed in there, the same shakiness he saw in Severine’s smile.

“What did she say to you?”

“Nothing.”

“Bullshit.” Bond reaches out and Q pulls away, still smiling. “You looked like you’ve seen a fucking ghost.”

“I told you, it’s just the hangover.” Q shrugs leaning against the wall of the elevator in mock casualty. “Sev is one of the talent managers. She’s been in the industry for ages, we go way back. We barely get to see each other anymore so she just came by to say hi.”

Bond can tell it’s not a lie in the same way it wouldn’t be a lie if he told anyone he works for the British government. One truth concealing another.

The elevator bell dings before Bond can say anything else. He’s not sure he would have known what to say to begin with. He tries to remind himself of the mission and Q’s role as an asset. A means to an end. How he is trained to use any means necessary to extract information out of assets.

And then he watches Q stepping out of the elevator into the hallway. His hands are shoved into the pockets of his oversized varsity jacket, but Bond can still see them tremble through the thick fabric. 

He tries to think of the last time he’s felt out of his depth like this and hates that the answer immediately manifests in his mind. That he can still smell her perfume and hear her laugh echo in his head. 

_ Fuck. _

Bond has to stop the doors of the elevator with his hands to get out before they close again. He catches up with Q in quick strides, making sure he reaches the hotel room before him. Q raises an eyebrow at Bond's insistence on sweeping the room for potential threats but doesn’t object.

When the room turns up clear, Bond feels something akin to disappointment. Someone hiding out in the hotel room, waiting to ambush them, would have given his nagging feeling of vigilance some legitimacy. But the room is filled with nothing but half-truths and empty pizza cartons.

And Snes.

The cat comes rushing out from under the bed as soon as Q sets foot into the room, leaping into his arms as if they’d been gone for two weeks rather than two hours. Q cradles her to his chest, nuzzling his face into her fur. Some of the tension visibly bleeds out of his shoulders and Bond finds himself averting his gaze. 

There is something intimate about the gesture and he can’t think about that too closely. Can’t think about the fact that what he actually wants to do more than anything, more than extracting information from an asset, is to pull Q close and be the reason the tension bleeds out of his shoulders. Be the reason he feels safe and protected.

But he doesn’t really know anymore how to do that without shooting something. He’s not sure he ever really knew. Men like that don’t give their life to Queen and Country.

So he goes for the next best thing.

“You need lunch,” Bond says half to break the silence, and half because he really needs to get the fuck out of this room for a second.

Q looks up at him, brows furrowed, obviously skeptical of the switch in tone. After a couple of seconds and Snes climbing up on his shoulders he seems to decide it works in his favor.

“Sure.” Q shrugs, making his way over to the laptop on his bed. ”I need to prep for the Semi-Finals anyway. Wouldn’t want to jeopardize the plan now, would we?”

There is still something in Bond that wants to object to plan A, but he lets it slide. He does a secondary sweep of the hotel room and draws every curtain before he turns to leave.

Q has nestled himself on the floor between the couch and coffee table, nearly swallowed by blankets and pillows that were on the bed just a couple of seconds ago. He is already furiously typing away at his laptop and Bond can see the same game booted up that he watched at yesterday’s quarter-finals. 

“I’ll be back in 15 minutes, do not open the door to anyone,” he instructs but Q doesn’t seem to hear him through his bulky headphones. For reasons unfathomable to him, they have two pastel pink cat ears attached to them that light up in every color of the rainbow.

Bond sighs, checks the balcony door lock one last time, and leaves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is all I have for now but don't worry, chrisitnefromsherwood will haunt me if I don't finish it so there should be more ... eventually.


End file.
